The Kindness In Snow
by Garmonbozia
Summary: River waits.  And has waited.  Has been standing still so long she hardly feels real anymore.  A thing trapped in ice, and all the lies that put her there, and all the lies that may yet let her go.   - Oneshot


"…How long has it been? For you, I mean."

She shrugs, swallows the lump in her throat, "Couple of days?"  
>"You're lying."<br>"Yes."

"Why?"

Oh, God, he can't be serious. What part of him is so far gone, so cold that he has to ask her that? Ruin everything. Why can't he just let her lie and tonight be an end to it? And what kind of a question is that to ask her anyway? Why lie?

Because it's easier. It's always easier. Because when you lie you leave out what was painful and it's like it never happened. You lie, and you lie well, and for a moment there can be peace, there at the eye of the storm. The world around you can fold in on it, all existence can be torn to shreds in the whirlpool, but you, there, at the centre, that's relief. That's quiet. The hurricane rages and all you are is a butterfly on a leaf. And she is so very sick of the hurricane.

How can she tell him that, though? How do you phrase something like that, when he's already asked and the moment is gone?

"This was a mistake," she tells him. Turns away and starts to walk, but it's hard going in the snow and he catches up with her. Pulls her back by the arm. She brushes fallen flakes out of her eyelashes with the tip of one gloved finger.

"What was?"

All of it. She thought she was being so clever, didn't she? If he wouldn't come from his own time, she'd bring him forward from before. Reset. She didn't like the rules and so she thought she'd change the game. But now that he's here, she doesn't want it. Now that he's here it hurts her to have manipulated him, to play his past and future like a film to pick and choose her scenes from. Bring him here and play it cool, a sweet and childish day in the snow.

But he saw it. One look at her and he knew. _How long has it been_?

"Oh. So you have me at a disadvantage, then, I take it?" No. Oh, no. Just the opposite, in fact. His pain and concern might be written plain across his face, but nonetheless, he stands there all but innocent, unburdened in this. He doesn't feel what she does, not right now. And when she cries, when she folds into him with her face turned in against his shoulder, he holds her the way he would anyone in the same distress, and closer for being who she is. "River, what's happened? I'm not dead, am I?"

She almost laughs, he's so casual. He's so close to the truth, she can't, in the end.

"No, my love. Nothing so straightforward."

"Well then? Out with it. Don't keep me in suspenders, River, you won't like it."

And at that, she laughs, but bitterly, desperately. Reels away from him and the cold bites her face fresh, pinching hard on the smudge wet tear tracks. Centuries of foreknowledge bear down on her, a familiar crushing weight, and she falters a moment in relief. She has only scraps of her lie and her pretence left. But now she can protect them. Never before has been so glad to curl, defended, behind the sweet stable dam of, oh, her favourite word.

But he stops her. Cuts in. Where she turned away from him he wraps his arms around her, hangs his head on her shoulder and presses his mouth close, "You're crying, River. Don't you dare tell me 'Spoilers' when you're crying."

"It's been four years, Doctor." Four years waiting. Four years believing that there _had_ to be a reason. Four years before she couldn't bear it anymore and had to call a version of him that would answer. She can hardly believe the word as it leaves her. Four. Four long chronological years.

Neither can he. And it's wonderful. He's hurt, yes, and she pities him, but he just can't believe that this could happen. Can't imagine how those four years would feel. She knows all this from the way he goes slack, from the low, shallow gasp. From how, for once, he has no words barring, "No. How?"

And now she can't help it. Now she wheels around, balls a fist and slams it hard against his shoulder. "You _ran_ off. You ran and you said you'd be back and you never came back." He's stunned to silence. She should stop. It's not his fault, he hasn't been there, doesn't know. He hasn't done anything yet. She should stop. "And then you wouldn't answer your phone, you changed the locks, blocked my manipulator… After the first year I stopped even stalking you. You don't answer letters…"

She still sends them. She doesn't tell him that.

And he, as bright and naïve as she used to be, chirps, "Well, there must be a _reason_."

"What reason? What kind of reason _is_ there? I've had a long time to consider this, Doctor. Just go, would you? I told you this was a mistake."

"What happened? Before I ran off, what happened?"

"Nothing. Absolutely nothing. We were sitting in my cell and… Oh, look, just go. Just leave…"

She shouldn't have seen him. She wouldn't say, would never say, that she'd been getting used to his absence, but she's certainly no closer now. She tries to shut her eyes. But that just brings his hands to her face, trying to tip it up, to make her look at him. The eyes stay shut though, scrunched tight like a little girl pretending to sleep. Oh God, just make him leave. Just something take away the sensation of his skin, the warmth of his fingers even in this frozen world. Don't let her thaw just so she can be forced to freeze again.

"We were sitting in your cell and what, River? Think; this is important."

"We… _Nothing_. We were talking. You asked me what I wanted to do for my birthday. I told you and you went to look into and… God! Damn you, Doctor, don't ask me to believe it's the musical bloody architecture that scared you so much!"

"Musical-"

"The…" It seems stupid now. Most things do. She all but groans it; "The Singing Towers, that was all…"

The hands fall from her face. He draws her in so quick and so tight it takes the air from her lungs. One hand buries itself in her hair and presses her head in against him, in the cradle of his collarbone. And for the first time in, oh God, so long, she feels protected. Feels safe. As the wind picks up and the snow blows down from the trees, his body shelters her, and they stand too, too long in that one, locked moment.

When, ultimately, she allows him to let go, he takes both her hands in his, looks her dead in the eye. "I believe I owe you some birthday presents. And Christmases and anniversaries and Valentine's and all the little saw-this-and-thought-of-you presents in between. Only thing is, River, there's no shopping on Dirillium."

And it's said like a joke. But she's too close to miss a thing. It's in the detail, in the depths of his eyes where he's tried to hide it all away. He's terrified.

She could ask. She should. It'll just sit between them otherwise and grow and fester. But isn't it, wouldn't it be, couldn't it possibly be worth it? Just to take this, take _now_, for what it is. Take them for all that they are here in this moment and just… just _take it_ and run.

Don't question it. It's hardly even a lie. Shake it off like the snow and, like the snow, in pure new sheets, let it lie.


End file.
